


Don't Think Just Move

by Frostfire



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, First Time, M/M, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostfire/pseuds/Frostfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because you *know* Marcus has never been tickled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Think Just Move

The first time it happens, they’re wrestling.

It took Marcus some time—even after he’d freed Esca, even after they’d settled in their little plot of land, _even_ when Esca would not shut up about horse breeding for _hours on end_ —to get comfortable fighting with him, even in play. It was too easy to remember how they’d fought for real, rolling around in the cold, damp dirt of Caledonia, Marcus frustrated and furious and wanting nothing more than to punch Esca’s filthy lying _face_ —

And all other memories aside, Esca was his slave. Marcus wants nothing like that between them now, now that they are two friends together, no hint of bound hands and bowed head. He has no wish for violence or submission.

Esca, though—Esca’s thoughts don’t seem to run in that direction at all. Esca suggests that they spar together more times than Marcus has excuses, teases Marcus about going soft during his recovery, wants to run races or wrestle whenever there is some spare time and nothing to fill it. And it doesn’t seem to matter to him who wins; a loss will leave him swearing that next time, he will leave Marcus in his dust, but five minutes later it’s forgotten.

So gradually, Marcus leaves behind his worries—if Esca isn’t upset when Marcus pins him or pushes him back at the point of a sword, then why should Marcus be? And it is good that he has the means available to keep his edge; Esca is no mean fighter, and Marcus would not want to let all of his training go to waste, for want of someone to challenge him. It’s good for both of them, and excellent preparation for bandits, rebels or deserters.

And he enjoys it, to be truthful. He had thought, up in the icy northern hills, that he would never be warm again—that he would die in that freezing water, as blue as one of the Seal People. He still gets cold easily. But he’s never warmer than when he’s spent half the morning rolling around their tiny practice field trying to pin Esca in the dirt, both of them sweating until it’s difficult to maintain any hold on slippery skin.

So they wrestle often, and one day, when Esca has truly and thoroughly pinned him, his fingers trail lightly—accidentally, it seems—over Marcus’ side. Marcus twitches away from the tickle, but he can’t get very far with Esca sitting on his stomach, and Esca just grins and does it again, on purpose.

“Hey—” Marcus says, trying to roll, to push Esca off, but he’s like a stone, and the unbearable tingling itch keeps up. Esca seems to know exactly how to move his fingers to keep it going. “ _Stop_.”

Esca’s laughing at him outright. “Why?” he says. “Your face is too priceless.” And he digs his fingers in, until Marcus convulses violently enough to knock him loose a little, and then he catches him and rolls, pinning Esca underneath him.

Esca’s laughing harder now, sprawled in the dirt underneath him; Marcus studies him, trying to figure out how to repay the insult. He gets his left arm across Esca’s chest in a solid pin, and tentatively brushes his fingers over his ribs.

“That’s pathetic,” Esca laughs, not even trying to get away from Marcus’ hand. “Who taught you how to tickle?”

“Nobody,” Marcus says. “Why would anybody teach me anything as useless as this?” He digs his fingers in harder, testing.

“Ow!” says Esca, squirming away. “What do you mean, nobody? Did you have no brothers—no, I suppose you didn’t. And your father left when you were so small—” he curls up into a sitting position, his legs still under Marcus’, studying Marcus’ face from close up. “None of the older boys in your town ever held you down and tickled you until you screamed mercy?”

“We didn’t associate much with the other families,” Marcus says, knowing it’s come out stiff, _knowing_ that he doesn’t need to prevaricate with Esca, that Esca of all people knows how and why other Romans didn’t want anything to do with him, _and_ —what Marcus has only recently learned—how little that matters. But the reflexes are old.

Esca’s watching him, now, frowning a little. “Your mother—”

Marcus can’t help his short bark of a laugh at the thought of his mother—his eternally despondent mother, wrapped in her white linen and sitting at the window, as though his father might come riding up one day, her sad smile and her white hand, as gentle as a leaf on the top of his head—

“Never mind,” says Esca. “Well, all right. As you say, it isn’t very useful.” He stands.

“But you—” Marcus starts, and cuts himself off, realizing how ridiculous it would sound. And it doesn’t seem that difficult, surely he _can_ learn for himself, if he chooses.

Esca raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Nothing,” Marcus says, standing up. “It’s time to look in on the horses, anyway.”

 

It rankles just a little, in the back of his mind, that day, that Esca has a skill that he does not, even something as stupid as this. Perhaps it is _because_ it is so simple, nothing that requires a hard boyhood in the north of Britain to learn. Just a child’s trick, something any brothers might do while roughhousing.

He forgets about it soon enough, though, what with the chores and the trip to town they need to make the next day, and the _serious_ sparring they do the next evening, and so on and so forth, and so it’s a surprise when it happens again, a week later.

“ _Stop that_ ,” he says, trying to get away. Esca has him pinned on his stomach this time, but it doesn’t seem to be hindering him.

“But the noises you make are so entertaining,” Esca says, and Marcus can hear the grin in his voice, even if he can’t see it. He digs his fingers in again, and this time Marcus surprises himself by laughing helplessly.

“Enough,” he says with his nose in the dirt, shivering and snorting with laughter, and Esca lets him up.

“I’m just showing you what you’ve missed,” Esca says, giving him a hand up. “I had two older brothers and one younger, I took enough of that myself, and passed it on when it was my turn.”

“I pity the youngest,” Marcus mutters, and regrets it a moment later when Esca’s face closes down, and it’s clear he’s remembering this young brother, no doubt slaughtered by Romans with the rest of his family.

“He bore it bravely,” Esca says finally, with a ghost of a smile, and goes quickly into the house. Marcus does not try to follow.

He does, the next time Esca has him pinned and is in an impish mood—there are many times, on the days when Esca is the victor, that he doesn’t choose to inflict this particular torture; only when he is feeling particularly perverse, it seems—try and bear it bravely himself. The problem, he quickly discovers, is that it is _impossible_.

“Stop trying to be stoic,” Esca says from above him, as Marcus twitches and clenches his teeth. “It won’t work.”

“I don’t—” Marcus gasps, and gives up and laughs. It’s freeing, to give in, and for the first time, he doesn’t expend all his energy trying to get away, just lets Esca have his fun and waits for it to be over. His skin shivers under Esca’s fingers, the touch like some sort of magic, and he laughs until he’s gasping for air, until Esca finally leaves off of his own will and leaves Marcus limp and panting beneath him.

“You’re very ticklish,” Esca observes, his eyes dancing. “I wouldn’t have expected it.”

“Furies take you,” Marcus says, and throws an arm over his eyes, dragging in air. A second later, he jolts in surprise and jerks his arm down again to see Esca withdrawing his hand, laughing.

“You have no instincts whatsoever,” Esca tells him. “You don’t even know what the vulnerable spots are.”

“Clearly I am _learning_ ,” Marcus says, glaring. “Does that one work on you?” He reaches up.

But Esca dances out of the way, up on his feet and across the yard in a second. “You’ll have to be quicker than that to find out,” he says.

 

The next evening, it’s chilly enough to require a fire even after the cooking is done, and Marcus sits down in front of it once the night’s chores are finished, relishing the heat. His leg hurts when it’s too cold and damp, and it will do it good to soak some warmth in.

Esca drops down next to him a little while later, his body curled in a graceful line that Marcus could never hope to emulate. Esca twists and turns like a cat, not only during their sparring matches, but in simple, ordinary motion. Marcus sees him, sometimes, do something like pick up a log for the fire, sit down on a low couch, climb up into an apple tree for some fruit, and the next time Marcus does the same, he will be hyper-aware of his own slow, clunky movements, his heavy footstep and clumsy gestures, the way his wound hampers his walk.

“Good day today,” Esca says thoughtfully, cutting into the apple he’s brought with him with his knife. He offers the first slice to Marcus.

“Thank you,” says Marcus, taking it. It’s good, crisp and sweet. “I thought so too. The harvest should be plentiful.”

“For what small amount of land we’ve seeded, yes,” Esca says, smiling. “But with no disasters, it should be more than enough for winter.” He eats two apple slices before Marcus is half-done his own, and cuts a third; with another slice for Marcus, the apple is half-gone, and he sets it carefully aside, cleaning off his knife and putting it away. He nods at Marcus’ bare feet, stretched out alongside the hearth. “You’ve left yourself vulnerable again.”

Marcus pauses with his fingers still sticky with apple juice, not entire sure what Esca means—and then he sees the familiar expression on Esca’s face, just as Esca runs a slow fingernail up the sole of his foot.

He kicks, automatically, but is aware at the same time that this is a different feeling—a deeper, lower thrill, up from his sole to the pit of his stomach. He pulls his foot back, but curls it around towards himself—Esca chose his good leg, of course, and he can easily grasp his foot in one hand and bring it close. He runs his own finger over the sole.

Esca is watching him; he pulled back in plenty of time to avoid the kick, surely aware it was coming, but now he’s come closer, looking. Marcus frowns down at his foot. “It never feels the same as when you do it,” he says.

He expects some further denigration of his skills, but Esca just says seriously, “You can’t tickle yourself.” And when Marcus frowns at him, he shrugs. “You can’t. No one can. Here, give me your foot again, I’ll do it.”

Hardly believing what he’s doing—he is truly _volunteering_ to be tortured?—Marcus stretches his foot out. Esca takes it in a loose grip and once again draws a fingernail down the sole.

This time, when Marcus twitches and tries to kick, Esca takes his ankle in a hard grip, so Marcus is left shivering and squirming on the other side of it while Esca continues with his fingernail.

It’s just such a wholly _overwhelming_ sensation. It leaves no room for anything else, no control and no reason, just his body, stuck in a helpless struggle, not sure if it wants to pull away or press in harder. Marcus gasps in air as Esca comes back with all five fingernails, gently from the ball of his foot to the heel and back again, feathering over the arch—oh, _gods_. It’s too much, and helpless against it, he’s hardening. From a fingernail to the sole of his foot, he’s hard.

Esca notices, of course; Esca notices everything, and his eyes linger on the outline of Marcus’ erection before flicking up to meet Marcus’ own gaze. “Do you like that?” is all he says.

And he’s stilled his hand, just resting the pads of his fingers against Marcus’ foot, so Marcus is able to catch his breath enough to speak. And he says, “Yes,” on a blown-out breath, because if there is anyone in this world with whom he can be honest—

“Good,” Esca says, and Marcus is given only an instant to wonder what that means before Esca’s nails come down again, with no mercy, and Marcus is sprawled out and ready to shriek aloud before he lets go.

He catches his breath, slowly, lying flat in front of the fire, and before he is entirely himself again, Esca is standing up, one lean graceful line. “I’m for bed,” he says, and Marcus can only nod dumbly. “Don’t fall asleep in front of the fire.”

“That was one time—” Marcus starts, but Esca’s door has shut before he can finish, Esca’s laughter drifting behind him.

He sits up, slowly. His foot is tingling, and he is still hard.

 

He brings himself off before he goes to sleep, taking himself in hand and working his cock quickly to release. It’s all his usual practice for when he’s too aroused to ignore it, but when he begins he is still too-hot and breathless, pleasure pooled in his groin, and as he strokes himself, he is thinking only of the lingering quiver and ache from Esca’s nails. He clenches his teeth as he spills, holding in a groan, and finds himself panting for breath when he’s done.

He thinks about it afterward. The way he dissolved under Esca’s fingers, gasping and filled with helpless laughter, convulsing on the floor. Stripped of his control, his defenses. He should hate it, and he would, he thinks, if it were anyone else.

 

It’s another couple of days before Esca does it again. Marcus thinks about asking for it, but he can’t even imagine how he’d begin to frame the question; he gets as far as, _Esca, would you—_ in his head before he gives it up as impossible.

So he waits. And Esca behaves as if the idea has never entered his head, suggesting a race one evening, a fight the next.

And then, on the third day, when they have just finished with the field, Esca tackles him when he’s looking elsewhere, bringing him down to the grass. They wrestle for a few minutes, first Esca with the upper hand, then Marcus, then Esca again—and while Esca is half-on-top of him, he digs his fingers into Marcus’s side and tickles.

Even expecting it, there’s no way to prepare; Marcus is caught just as off-guard as if Esca had snuck up on him. He lets go the hold he had on Esca, twisting half-away from, half-into the touch, wanting it but not knowing how much he can stand.

Esca draws his hands back for a moment, and Marcus heaves in a deep breath, collecting his scattered thoughts as best he can—but, as it turns out, Esca is only lifting the hem of his shirt so that he can attack Marcus’s bare skin.

It’s unbearable, and it goes on and on—Esca’s fingers _everywhere_ ,hard over his ribs and gently on his stomach, the occasional fiery scrape of a fingernail—until Marcus finally does yell, writhing under Esca like he’s afflicted. “ _Esca_ —” he says, “Esca—”

Esca lifts his hands again, but this time it’s to set them firmly on Marcus’s chest and drag them down, a heavy, deliberate touch that seems to catch up the tingling of his skin and draw it all toward his groin. “What?” he says, eyebrows up, as though he has no idea what Marcus could want.

“ _Please_ ,” Marcus gasps, and it seems as though that’s what Esca needs, because his fingertips dig in, just for a moment, above Marcus’ hips, and then he takes advantage of Marcus’ twisting writhe to yank down his trousers. Marcus freezes, suddenly exposed, his skin feeling raw and open, and Esca ducks down and takes Marcus into his mouth.

The solid, hot wave of pleasure is a shock. It’s what his skin was yearning for, when it was under Esca’s fingers—like the shivery heat of being tickled was stripping him down, making him ready. He arches, pushing forward into the wetness of Esca’s mouth, open and wanting.

He comes in a wet rush, shuddering, his skin prickling all over. He can feel the air whispering against his exposed chest, his sides, his stomach. There are hot trails on his skin everywhere Esca’s fingers have been.

Esca is cleaning him off with leisurely licks, sending jolts of too-sharp pleasure through him. Marcus breathes, not sure if he wants it to be over yet or not.

And then Esca licks upward—his thigh, his hipbone—“ _Oh_ ,” he says, though he’d deny it to anyone who asked, when Esca’s tongue traces up from his hip, along one of those tingling paths.

Esca raises his head. “Yes?” he says, with his secretive smile.

“You—” Marcus starts, and then can’t think of any appropriate names to call him. “What about you?” he says instead. Esca’s erection is tenting his own trousers.

Esca drops a hand down to touch himself, his fingers drifting over the fabric. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. His eyes are tracing Marcus’ chest. Marcus wonders if there are red marks left by Esca’s fingernails, if his skin is glistening where Esca licked him.

Esca strips his trousers off slowly, still watching him, his hand coming back to his dick. By the time he’s done, Marcus has worked up the courage to speak. “Do it,” he says, and licks his lips. “Do it on me.”

Esca’s eyes flare hot, and he comes forward instantly, his hand moving faster. He jerks himself quickly, and Marcus watches, hardly believing that he’s asked for this. His spine arches a little, involuntarily, when he sees wetness smeared on Esca’s fingers, on the head of his dick, and Esca catches the movement and inhales sharply. He speeds up, looking almost helpless in the grip of his lust. Wanting Marcus, wanting him this badly, and this is something Marcus needed, after days and days of Esca’s teasing. Making _him_ want this time, holding him in the grip of—whatever this is.

Esca lets out a ragged gasp and finally starts to come, streaks of white landing hot on Marcus’ so-sensitive skin. Marcus hears himself make a strangled noise as his body tries to react, too soon to harden again. Esca’s seed painted across his stomach—Esca’s _hand_ , smearing through it. “What—” Marcus starts, and stops again as it becomes clear what Esca is doing; Esca is leaning in to lick through a thick trail of it.

“Come—come here,” Marcus chokes out, and pulls Esca to him. He means only to embrace, he thinks, but Esca kisses him fiercely, tasting bitter and sharp, and Marcus opens his mouth for it.

They kiss for a long, hurting moment, and then Esca pulls back, breathing hard, and lets himself fall down at Marcus’ side, sprawled on the grass. “Gods,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

That surprises a laugh out of Marcus. “Neither was I,” he says, and it’s true, he was only thinking that maybe, maybe Esca might touch him, not—“I didn’t know you,” he starts, and then has to stop before he says something offensive.

Esca props himself up on one elbow and looks at him, eyebrows up. When Marcus doesn’t continue, he says, “It’s more common among the Celts. Although I think you’d find that quite a few Romans—”

“I know,” Marcus says hastily, because he commanded soldiers, he knows.

“Anyway,” Esca says, “the way you go all boneless like that, it was hard to resist.”

Marcus wants to argue with that, but it’s undeniably true; the evidence is all over his stomach. “I still think you should teach me.”

“And give up my advantage?” Esca asks, laughing. “Besides, I like the way your head arches back just so—” and he scrambles away as Marcus comes after him, hiding his involuntary flush in Esca’s back when he pins him.

 

“So,” Esca says later, when they’ve gone inside and washed up and done the evening chores, and they’re lounging in front of the fire. “Shall I try your feet again, next?”

Marcus closes his eyes, smiles despite himself. Doesn’t turn his head away to conceal it, though he wants to. “Yes,” he says. “Not tonight, though, I’ve no more strength left.”

“Plenty of nights ahead,” Esca says, seemingly unconcerned, but when Marcus breathes faster, thinking about it, he smiles.


End file.
